


The Man Who Fell From The Moon

by Helig



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon Divergence (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Fantastic Racism, Gore, Post-Canon (Bloodborne), Psychoanalyzing The Great Ones, Worldbuilding, all the garbage you can find in both games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helig/pseuds/Helig
Summary: Abrupt changes in pressure may beget terrible waves, reaching far and wide. The Veil ruptures and a distant dreamer dreams yet another dream.





	The Man Who Fell From The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> listen. this is fertile ground for plot bunnies.

_This sadness, it is not a wounded cry._  
_It is a dirge - to the lost and the unborn._

The iron manacles seem unnecessary. Itchy, even, cowering flesh at the joint of his wrists and clashing horribly with the leather of his coat. The bars would hold a mortal man, all the same, he thinks. As would the guards, posted at the entrance, keeping eye now mostly on the other prisoner. The scent of fear, their scent - it grows every time the world outside rumbles.

He wonders, barely awake, and understands. A form of a man, unarmed and sadly underdressed for the queer absence of his hat - that sight, well, it is hardly discomforting. What is a man in a cell, really, when the world outside is filled with screaming, both human and not quite, as well as the sounds of distant battle? And this noise, terrible and awesome noise of the world breaking apart, the one that shakes his joints from Morpheus's spell... With every tremorous sound, the glowing gash on the hand of the other glows brighter.

He stretches, rattling the chain ever so slightly. One of the guards, the shorter one, jolts and turns swiftly towards his cell. This man, oh he has a handsome face. With black stubble and what might be grey or light blue eyes, shaded by heavy brows and the rim of his helmet. The other one is more composed, turning only the head - they are more feminine. The details elude him in the flickering light, but he gets a sense of a scowl and lips made thin by scrutiny of expression. A flicker of the torch reveals glistening scars, half across the face - careful lines, parallel. Not the kind that a beast would make, he thinks. There is a geometric beauty to them even. He makes to get up, to get closer to the bars, to study both of them. They appear so human.

"Go send for the Seeker," she orders, and the handsome man scuttles with a hurried "yes ma'am" outside of his field of vision.

There is definitely a capital letter in that one, the man notes. There is a creak, complaint of iron turning against iron, a shadow of the guard crowned by a square of reds and pinks and then naught but firelight again. Meanwhile, the woman hoists a shield from her back and starts reaching for the pommel of her sword. A bastard, by the looks of it. The man in the cell finds it somewhat discomforting and seeks communion, remembering how to on the go.

"I am afraid we are not acquainted," he speaks in a dry baritone, quiet from disuse. He aims to be amicable. The woman stills, straightens and watches him closely for a few moments.

"We ain't gonna be if you keep your hands where I can see them," she orders. What an odd request, for an unarmed man. He voices the concern but rises his hands, palms forward, peacefully open. That makes her put her shield in front of her and draw her sword. The man in the cell wonders if he is remembering how to human correctly and his mustache tickles his lower lip. A sad pout crept onto his face.

"Down. Through the bars."

There is more threat in that one, now. He moves to obey, if only out of sheer confusion.

"Ah, but," he tries and is immediately interrupted by the sword's edge getting closer to his flesh, to his thin human skin. The blood, bubbling in his veins. He doesn't want to have to hurt her.

"Keep. Quiet," she bears down on him again, meaning business. He truly is unarmed. And it is not as though he would utter madness into her ear, not whereas he still held onto the words of men. He stays quiet nonetheless, hands on the cold metal of the bars draped listlessly. She takes a few steps back. To keep the other prisoner in her sights, probably. "Good. The Seeker and the elf will deal with you. And you don't peep until then."

"The Elf?"

What is the Elf. Is there a capital letter in that one too?

"Nada. No words. No gestures. No noise. No spells, no demons."

The door opens again to her exhausted muttering.

"Maker knows there's enough of them outside."


End file.
